


This is not Fangtasia

by tinglebop



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Mind Games, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vampires, bondage-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinglebop/pseuds/tinglebop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenagers are (once again) dropping like flies and (again) it all has to do with a mysterious club with a terrible name. </p><p>Dean gets kidnapped,  vampires are way handsier than anyone should ever have the misfortune of knowing, and if Cas could just get out of Dean's head for five seconds, that would be <em>awesome</em>, thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU post season 9: They closed hell without Sam dying. The angels did not fall. Cass still has his mojo.

Wedged between _two_ twenty-four hour gyms, both inexplicably blasting ‘I kissed a girl’ (which Dean did _not_ know the words to, thank you very much), was the link that connected, so far, nine missing residents of Serenity, California: a mysterious and, as Dean had discovered to his cost, very exclusive club that the red and white neon sign declared as ‘Red Velvet’.

( _Dean picked himself up with a grunt and slapped the gravel off his backside with one hand while holding his side with the other. Son of a bitch almost bust his spleen._

_“Just ‘no’ would have done, you know!”_

_The bouncer ignored him completely to admit a blonde kid with pale eyes and nowhere near enough facial hair to be drinking._

_“Hey! You didn’t even card him!”_

_Sam snorted, face contorting with the effort of not laughing. “Looks like you’re not on the list.”_

_“Shut up, Sammy.”)_

All the victims were attractive, mostly unemployed young people in their late teens and early twenties, more women than men, whose last known locations had been the sites of horrendous accidents.

( _“Car crash?”_

_“To put it lightly,” Sam replied, passing him the crime scene photos. The mangled remains of an old Toyota Corolla were wrapped entirely around a tree, the trunk eating through the hood and most of the windscreen. “Vic had to have been the only one in the car, but… no body. Apparently they were scraping the asphalt for DNA. Got nothing.”_

_“Explains the missing persons. Can’t blame them for having hope.”)_

Dean cracked his neck, checked the time on the radio (one twenty A.M.) and finished the rest of his gas ‘n’ sip coffee. Notes of cardboard and motor oil threatened to make his eyes water. Leaning over to the passenger’s side window, he tossed the cup into a trashcan for a three-pointer.

It was the highlight of his last four hours.

“Red velvet…” Dean muttered to himself, just to see how stupid it sounded out loud. _Seriously._

“After the cupcake.”

Dean jumped at the voice, suddenly close by. It had come from Sammy’s side, though baby brother himself was currently trawling through case files and certainly did not have the voice of a phone sex operator. A woman – _girl_ – was leaning through the window on folded arms, a position which drew attention to her – to the _necklace_ that dipped into the gap between her – anyway, she had lovely eyes. Sea green like nothing he’d ever seen before. And red, pouty lips to complement the black, strappy dress that hugged her– Dean shook himself. God, how old was she?

The girl glanced away to giggle, flipping strawberry blonde curls over her shoulder.

“The cupcake,” she repeated, smirking slightly. “Not the coffin liner… So, who’s taking you?”

He blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Well. No offence, but you don’t look like the type.” She nodded at the club.

Dean recovered with his best smirk. “What can I say? I’m adventurous.”

The girl wriggled coquettishly, rolling her shoulders in a move that made her dress shift and… also other things.

“I’m sure you are,” she murmured through a grin, and Christ, that _voice._ Her eyes slid hotly over him from top to bottom, making him want to straighten up, maybe shave, brush the coffee tar off his tongue.

“But you know, they don’t let you in without an invitation. And…” She lowered her voice and smiled again, bright and mischievous in a way that made the last four hours completely worthwhile. “Well… my plus one’s just stood me up. So, I mean…”

She fluttered her eyelashes in so obvious a gesture it made him want to giggle. “If you still want to… I could get you in.”

Dean’s face split into a wide grin. Now, how could he refuse an offer like that?

Trailing a few steps behind his guide, Dean made sure to wink at the bouncer when they got to the door. It was the same scrawny guy with goddamn super-soldier juice in his veins who had drop kicked him five feet through the air last time. The alley seemed deeper on the inside, almost completely pitch black beyond the slant of light coming in from the street. Only the weak, crackling neon sign above the door led the way. And what a door. Steel, from the look of it, and well over two inches thick when discount Chris Evans deigned to open it.

They ended up in an elevator just a few steps inside. After pressing [down], Izzie leaned back against the handrails, walking her fingers out to spread her arms and slouch like some kind of cover model. It occurred to him that she hadn’t once touched him on the way from the car. In spite of all the hair flicking, shoulder wiggling and eyelash battering, she wouldn’t lay a finger on him. And now, she was standing at the far end of the small space, sucking the jelly out of his eyes with her stare.  

“You _do_ know what this place is, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.

“Sure,” Dean lied. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

She only smiled in reply.

The doors opened and they stepped out into a dimly lit reception area, with a set of double doors at the end and a counter manned by a woman in a white dress. Some generic _nn-ts-nn-ts_ club mix thudded through the carpet. Dean scanned for weird, monitored the temperature, sniffed for sulphur: nothing.

When he was passed the fancy fountain pen – again, Izzie pushed it across the countertop instead of just handing it to him – he took his time signing the fake name he’d given (Dereck Whatever). The page was filled with signatures, but of course, this was only for tonight, and none belonged to the victims. Izzie, he noted, was Isobel Hart.

“Jacket.” She held out her hand expectantly. “There’s a dress code.”

Dean hesitated. His jacket was practically an armoury. If he went in without it… but he’d never get another chance. And what’s the worst that could happen? It was just a stupid club.

Shrugging it off, he insisted that he hung it personally on the hook – “It’s, you know, it’s sentimental, it was my dead uncle’s, whatever” – to minimize clatter. Left in a black, short-sleeved T-shirt, he felt utterly naked.

The lady in white gave him the well-rehearsed smile of receptionists the world over and pressed some button hidden behind the counter that set the double doors swinging open.

It was so dark that for several seconds, all Dean could see was the constellation of tea candles that flickered and shook through the shadows, the only light in the room. When his eyes finally adjusted, he recognised a romantic restaurant – or a strip club without the poles or staging. In the centre, guests were seated at small round tables, festooned with the aforementioned candles. Curtained booths around them, and here came the strip club vibe, hid the occupants from sight – but not sound. An embarrassing array of soft noises wafted through the room, punctuated by gasps. Everything was red or white.

The staff were all prime examples of humanity: uniformly young, pretty and athletically built. Women strutted between the guests in red spaghetti strap dresses and stiletto heels; the men wore grey cotton shorts, like Victorian newspaper boys, with red suspenders, and little else. The only thing out of the ordinary was the red ribbon wrapped around their wrists, necks and thighs.

It took Dean one clear glance around to notice, disturbingly, that where a ribbon was missing, the skin would be bruised all shades of red and purple: fresh, but shallow under the skin, and especially drastic in the darkness. On closer inspection, they all had the same tired, pale air, exaggerated by the yellow candle light. The fewer ribbons, the paler and more lethargic they looked.

Dean’s fingers twitched for his missing weapons. Something was very wrong.

At a table by the door, a woman in a cream blouse caught the arm of a boy with suspenders and ribbon around his vitals. He stopped immediately, flashing her a bright smile and dropped smoothly to his knees at a whispered word. They spoke briefly and he let her tuck a small wad of notes into the waist of his shorts. Then she lifted a glass of something cold and bubbly to his lips and he swallowed obediently, looking up at her from under his eyelashes with round, puppy dog eyes.

Dean was about to look away with a standard ‘get a room’ quip when the woman reached up to the boy’s neck, traced the strip of red satin, and twisted open the pin to slide the ribbon free. Dean couldn’t hear it, but he saw the moan on the boy’s lips when she leaned forward to kiss his exposed skin. His eyes slid shut. She wrapped one hand in his hair and pulled his head to her shoulder, the other rubbing soothingly up and down his bicep. Then she licked a long, wet stripe up the side of his throat.

Suddenly, a light flickered on in Dean’s brain.

The bruising. The overreacting bouncer. The _dark_.

The penny fell clattering to the floor as two white, gleaming fangs slid out over the woman’s canines, and she sank them into the boy’s throat.

This time, Dean heard the moan. Blood seeped out where her lips met his skin. One drop trickled sluggishly down the column of his neck, along the dip of his collar bone. It threatened to spill out over his chest, but the woman pulled away briefly, yanked his head back by the hair and bent to chase the stray droplet from the hollow of his chest up to the source. Then she bared her fangs again and bit him through the old wound, drawing a hoarse groan and a full body shudder.

Dean felt his hand shaking. His eyes leapt around the room, and suddenly, the couples he’d seen wrapped around each other in their seats, the undercurrent of groans and gasps all around the room, the lethargic, dead-eye stare on the beautiful faces that paraded past him… it all took on a horrific light.

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t – Whatever this was– People didn’t just bare their necks like that for _money_. Vampires didn’t sit around waiting for their food to come to them with a wink and a smile. The Alpha had picked a hissy fit with Leviathan over this shit. The humans… they had to have been forced. Drugged, maybe. Perhaps they’d fixed Dick’s corn syrup formula. Or maybe they’d been brainwashed. He thought of Emily in her pink room, calling the monster ‘daddy’.

A tap at his shoulder jolted him like an electric shock.

He drew breath, ready to make his excuses – parked on a meter, gotta feed the cat, fucking _dysentery_. He had to get out. Get Sammy. No, _Cas._ Angel-nuke the whole building.

A cold hand closed around his bare arm as he spun around.

 _Cold_.

Izzie’s sparkling eyes were fixed on his.

“Like what you see, Dean?” she grinned up at him.

_Don’t panic. Breathe._

“Let go of me and I’ll start with your head when I cut you to bits,” he snarled.

Her lips parted in open, joyous amazement.

But he was talking big. There were too many. Too many of _them_. Too many civilians. His weapons were in the other room. And they were organised. This was a _business._

He had to get a message to Sam. But Sam would never make it in time, except to collect his body, if they even left one. Sammy would follow him here and he would be torn to shreds.

 _Cas_ , he thought desperately. _Cas, if you’re listening, if we were ever friends, warn Sammy. Tell him to stay the fuck away until he finds a goddamn army. Tell him –_

“Daddy was right,” the vampire murmured. Her fingers were biting bruises into his arm. “You are _adorable_.”

He breathed in, opened his mouth like he was about to speak, then _jabbed_ the toe of his boot into her shin. Even monsters hated that one. Then he twisted his arm, forcing her wrist the wrong way round – she caught him with her other hand – he yanked back, twisted – _rammed_ his knee into her stomach when she was jerked forward – caught her in the cheek with a left hook. Finally, she let go, staggering. Dean leapt backward and snatched a knife from either boot. Blades flicked out with the press of a button.

He dropped into a defensive stance, feeling better to be armed. But they were just knives. He was just _one._

“Come at me, bitch,” he spat.

Still grinning, Izzie raised her palms.

Around them, the room had fallen silent. The humans were standing or kneeling stock still, staring at the ground, making themselves as small as possible. Dean heaved the air into his lungs. The darkness had turned thick and oily. Flickering candlelight gave the illusion of dozens of flies buzzing at his peripheral vision.  

“Who’s this?”

It was the woman – _vampire_ – in the cream shirt, standing up. The boy she’d bitten had hidden himself practically under the table. Amazingly, there was no sign of the bloody puncture wounds that should have shown where the vampire had fed. The skin wasn’t even broken. Only a violent bruise remained.

“A guest,” Izzie replied, like they were being introduced at a society dinner. “Dean Winchester.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Dean tightened the grip around his puny weapons.

Several more vampires stood up. Their eyes… Dean stared incredulously through the dark and adrenaline. They were red. _Glowing_ red. Those that met his gaze bared their fangs. But just the classic two rather than the whole shark’s mouth.

What the hell was happening? The last time monsters had gone weird, Eve had been messing with the test tubes. But she was gone, now, so what…

“Not dessert?” asked a vampire in the back. He licked his lips when Dean saw him. “He looks delish.”

“Are you the one who stopped the apocalypse?” someone asked curiously. 

Dean felt himself smirking on reflex. “Yeah. That was me.”

_And my brother, who lost his soul. And nearly died. And an angel, who did die. Came back to life, died, came back to life, died, came back to life. And Jo. Ellen. And –_

But they didn’t need to know all that.

The lights started going out in their eyes. Fangs began to retract. Dean smiled grimly. Being saviour of the universe had to pay off some time.

_Unless…_

Izzie’s gaze left him to track something over his shoulder. Dean felt a bucket of ice land on his head as his hackles rose.

In that moment of surprise, Izzie lashed out with a stiletto heel and knocked the knife out of his left hand just as someone grabbed his other wrist from behind. Didn’t squeeze, just held it away from him as he felt a cold touch at his temple.

He realised that his body had stopped moving. Pinpoints of candlelight were shrinking. His eyes slid shut. His legs melted.

He was out before he fell into waiting arms.

*

“ _… Dean’s other, other cell, so you must know what to do.”  Beeeeep._

“Dean, I swear, if you’re in a strip club somewhere with your phone turned off, I will break your nose,” Sam snapped into the phone.

It was three in the morning. Dean should have checked in or been back hours ago. Having run through all of his other-to-the- _nth_ phones twice, Sam now trotted down the street two blocks from their motel, looking for a car to boost since Dean had taken the Impala.

He’d just sparked the ignition on a blue Volkswagen when a voice behind him nearly made him lose his skin.

“Hello, Sam.”

He face-planted into the steering wheel. Took a deep breath. How many _times_ –

“Hi, Cass,” he replied, after he’d landed from his six foot jump scare. “Did it have to be the backseat?”

“The front seats are usually occupied,” Cass explained sombrely. The next second, he was in the passenger’s seat. “Sam, Dean sent me.”

Sam felt his skin go cold. If Dean was using Cass to pass notes…

“Where is he? What’s happened?”

“He was briefly somewhere between 22 and 24 –”

“A club. He was there for a case,” Sam cut in, hurrying Cass along. “What _happened?_ ”

Cass frowned. “I don’t know. The premises are warded against angels. But…” He gave him Dean’s warning, word for word.

Sam’s heart dropped right through his stomach. _A goddamn army._ What could Dean have gotten himself into that he would need an army?

“Alright, is he still there?” Sam pulled out in a screech of tyres and raced towards the club.

Cass looked away for a moment, eyes unfocused, then frowned and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t see or hear him. He’s hidden from me.”

Sam stood on the breaks. _Don’t panic. Breathe. Think._

“Okay. Okay, so we need a spell. A tracking spell. Can you –?” The angel had disappeared. Sam slammed a fist into the dashboard. “ _Dammit!_ ”

“We won’t need the car.”

Sam looked up in time to see Cass’ hand grip his shoulder, then felt the world warp around him until he was back in the motel room. A local map of Serenity was laid out on the table, along with the ingredients for their tracking spell.

He swallowed guiltily. “Thanks, man.”

Cass nodded grimly. After mixing the pertinents in a takeaway container, he poured it onto the map and set it alight with a snap of his fingers. The fire whooshed to life, bright white. A shrinking circle of flame ate the map in seconds. Cass picked up the remnant and blew off the ashes.

“I know where he is.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean woke like he was coming up from anaesthesia. Not the clean break that Cass’ angel knock outs tended to be. He came up slow and messy, dragging up nightmares like mud from a swamp. Fangs and claws and rending flesh. Cass, bursting with death and betrayal. Sammy with the trials burning through him, coughing up blood, face like chalk…

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the club. The darkness was suffocating him like a physical weight on his chest. The vampire's fingers were tight around his wrists. Dean grabbed for his weapons –

But his hands were empty. And… restrained. Gradually, he shook the mud from his eyes. He wasn’t at the club. He was lying down. It wasn’t dark in the room; he was blindfolded. He felt his eyelashes brushing the cloth and could see a tiny sliver of light seeping out from underneath.

He tugged experimentally. The restraints weren’t uncomfortable against his skin, didn’t cut like hand cuffs or zip ties. He could imagine the wide, faux leather cuffs preferred by mental institutions. His ankles were similarly bound, spreading him out taut like a specimen.

He took several deep breaths through his nose. Nothing really hurt, he noted, but his shoulders were getting stiff. He was lying on what had to be at least a mattress, and there might have been an actual pillow under his head. The comfortable restraints meant he could struggle without hurting himself. So whoever took him wanted him undamaged. It explained why Izzie hadn’t fought back during their short and pointless scuffle. But it didn’t make him feel much better.

Maybe they simply didn’t _need_ to hurt him, what with magical bullshit knock out powers which – _for fuck’s sake magical vampires..._

More likely, they were just saving the fun for later. Almost half a century under Alistair’s tutelage had taught Dean well. Sometimes, you chained people to the cross in the basement, let them see the saws and screws while you paced around menacingly, picking your nails with a hunting knife until they broke down and gave you what you wanted. And other times… you set them up in a comfortable bed, with wide cushioned cuffs so they couldn’t lose their skin or break their wrists against harsh metal when they struggled. You gave them water when they thirsted, food when they hungered, stroked as often as you slapped, until finally, days later – weeks, months, what did it matter – they stopped struggling.

Dean forced the thought out of his mind. He was about to start testing the cuffs when the weight on his chest disappeared – a literal weight: hands, specifically, pressing him into the mattress. The weight shifted back onto his hips and thighs. Someone was  _sitting_ on him. 

“You know, if you wanted me so bad, you could have just asked,” he sneered. Or tried to, anyway. It was difficult to sound sarcastic when you were blind and bound.

The hands came back, this time crawling up the sides of his ribs, tickling him. He twisted, yanking painfully on the cuffs as his core clenched reflexively. Someone chuckled above him. Someone _male._  

“Aaron,” the voice introduced itself. “It’s such an honour to meet you, Dean. Although, I have to admit, I was expecting your brother.”

He sounded young and smooth, with a clean, just posh enough sort of English accent that reminded him of Bella Talbot. At this realisation, Dean almost rolled his eyes. Bella. Balthazar. Crowley. Now this joker. What was it about that accent?  

The hands, having reached just under his arms, now crawled back down. Dean spasmed for the second time, grunting through clenched teeth against the ridiculous impulse to laugh.

“I mean, of the two of you,” Aaron asked, stroking a palm over Dean’s stomach to feel the muscles twitching, “who would you risk your life for?”

He waited till the hunter had opened his mouth to reply before raking his nails over his ribs again.  

“Fuck!” Dean gasped. He flinched so hard he thought he’d crack a rib or dislocate his wrists. Curse his goddamn nerves, why was he so _ticklish_ suddenly _?_ The worst part was, it didn’t even _hurt_ , it just drove him insane.

Then Aaron did it _again_ , and Dean threw his head back, hissing through his teeth.

It happened maybe ten more times before Aaron finally got bored. Dean was panting by the end, tears in his eyes thankfully hidden under the blindfold, swearing freely while his stomach cramped from forced laughter.  

“So, what,” he gasped, “you’re gonna tickle me to death?”

Another chuckle. Dean was seriously looking forward to punching that sound out of the bastard’s throat.

“I wouldn’t _kill_ you,” came the reply. Dean could feel Aaron’s hands dipping the mattress on either side of his head as he leaned over him. Breath ghosted by Dean’s ear before he felt cold lips against his jaw. “Where would be the fun in that?” he whispered.

Dean clenched his jaws from the effort of not flinching away. It made Aaron smile; he could feel it on his skin.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked lightly.

Dean snorted. The grin he forced onto his face almost slipped when Aaron rolled his hips. It was a close thing, but Dean managed not to look down when he heard a belt buckle being slowly undone and then felt the vampire’s cold fingers slide up under his shirt. He couldn’t stop the shiver that shook him, though.

“Nah, man.” As soon as he spoke, Dean found himself oddly breathless. Aaron had lowered himself onto his elbows now, their chests flush with each other, and was bent over Dean’s neck. “Normally, I gotta pay for stuff like this. Thanks for the freebie.”

Aaron breathed a laugh into his shoulder. If that made Dean’s skin crawl, it was soon outdone when the vampire opened his mouth and licked a wet stripe from his collarbone all the way up his neck to his ear. Dean flinched violently for the umpteenth time, arms bulging uselessly against the cuffs.

That started the onslaught in earnest. Aaron licked and sucked and nibbled at his neck and shoulders, ran his tongue over the shell of his ear and sucked the lobe into his mouth, yanked his head back by the hair so he could kiss the sensitive skin under his jaw. Dean kept waiting for him to bite. But though Aaron teased his fangs against his skin, scraping until it hurt and Dean was sure it would break skin, he never bit down except with blunt teeth. After ten entire minutes, Aaron sucked a third hickey into the Dean’s neck, moaning into it, then pulled away with an obscene, wet sound.

“God, you taste good,” he groaned. He lifted his head only to fall on the other side of Dean’s throat.

The hunter was panting again. His heart pounded against his chest, and in turn against Aaron’s. The fingers under his shirt never stopped, sliding up and down to pinch and scratch, making him tense constantly and grit his teeth.

Monsters liked to play with their food, but this was getting ridiculous. Boring, almost, as Aaron continued to disappoint all expectations by showing no interest in feeding. But every twitch, every gasp that escaped Dean’s teeth seemed to egg him on.

Still, it was only when the vampire pushed a knee between his legs that the flash-bulb exploded in Dean’s mind.

He’d been so preoccupied with ‘vampire’, so sure of Aaron’s end game, that he’d pushed everything else to the side. Now, he had a sudden, horrifying moment of clarity. He saw himself cuffed spread eagle to a bed while some _guy_ sat on his hips and groped him. His muscles spasmed suddenly and he had to bite his tongue to stop the words from pouring out of his traitorous mouth.

On cue, Aaron paused. Pushing back up onto an elbow, he rubbed a hand soothingly over Dean’s bare stomach.

“What, not enjoying ourselves?”

Dean swallowed thickly. “Just get on with it,” he rasped. “We don’t all live forever.”

The vampire laughed somewhere deep in his chest. Nuzzling the side of Dean’s face like a cat, he murmured, “I’m sorry, Dean. I can do better, I promise.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean replied lamely. But he had to stop talking. If anything else came out, he might throw up.

So of course, Aaron chose this exact moment to press his mouth against Dean’s. It felt surprisingly soft, for a guy, but cold, even when his tongue flicked out wetly. Dean didn’t try to move his head, but he didn’t open his mouth either.

“Come on,” Aaron purred. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Dean kept his mouth shut. After a while, Aaron leaned back. Dean thought he’d given up when an iron fist curled right up under his diaphragm, punching the air out of his lungs. He gasped, and Aaron grabbed his jaw to shove his tongue into his mouth.

It reminded him oddly of being kissed by Meg that one time during the apocalypse (ah, the good old times…). Except without the peanut butter.

His first reaction was to just bite the son of a bitch’s tongue off, but _no_ , that would be very, very bad. A mouthful of vampire blood and no means of escape was not what he needed right now. So all he could do was let his jaws go slack and try not to give Aaron the satisfaction of choking.

But after pushing his tongue all the way down Dean’s throat only a couple of times, Aaron turned surprisingly gentle. He kissed like he wanted Dean to like it, stroked his cheek and ran fingers through his hair like a lover. Eventually, Dean felt hands travel down his sides and over his hips. The knee between his legs was still there. He felt the button on his jeans pop, then heard the zipper being pulled down. His heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings. The muscles in his arms twitched sporadically, as if trying to struggle before remembering it was pointless.

He wasn’t panicking. He couldn’t be panicking. He’d spent a year in Purgatory, _forty_ in Hell, he wasn’t _capable_ of panic anymore.

(But it was a very close thing.)

Then all at once, just as he was digging the skin off his palms clenching his fists, everything stopped. the vampire pulled back from the kiss, leaving Dean sucking air like it was treacle.

Aaron started to laugh. He _laughed_. “Oh, Dean…”

A hand wiped the sweat off his temple, then carded through his hair. More cold fingers trailed up and down his arm, occasionally slowing to massage the twitching, seizing muscle.

“I’m sorry. That was an awful thing to do. Were you scared?”

Dean was speechless. His mind had become one giant, ballooning void of aborted dread.

Fingers were on his face again, his cheek, jaw, brow bone, along the bridge and over the tip of his nose. He thumbed slowly over Dean’s bottom lip. It was moist and swollen and red, hypersensitive from Aaron’s attentions and just that touch was enough to set his nerves alight, every ridge on the vampire’s thumb rasping like sandpaper against his feverish skin. Dean swallowed to block the gasp that threatened to escape.

“You needn’t have worried,” the vampire sighed wistfully as the touch vanished. “I know my place. I would never dare step on an _angel’s_ toes.”

The bed bounced as Aaron swung himself onto the ground. Footsteps retreated.

Then Dean found his voice.

“Wait... _what?_ ” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found this buried somewhere in my computer so what the hey. Thoughts? Feelings? Lemme know~~~


End file.
